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Project Gutenberg's Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 7, No. 43, May, 1861, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 7, No. 43, May, 1861 Author: Various Release Date: February 19, 2004 [EBook #11170] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ATLANTIC MONTHLY, NO. 43 *** Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. VOL. VII.--MAY, 1861.--NO. XLIII. AGNES OF SORRENTO. CHAPTER I. THE OLD TOWN. The setting sunbeams slant over the antique gateway of Sorrento, fusing into a golden bronze the brown freestone vestments of old Saint Antonio, who with his heavy stone mitre and upraised hands has for centuries kept watch thereupon. A quiet time he has of it up there in the golden Italian air, in petrified act of blessing, while orange lichens and green mosses from year to year embroider quaint patterns on the seams of his sacerdotal vestments, and small tassels of grass volunteer to ornament the folds of his priestly drapery, and golden showers of blossoms from some more hardy plant fall from his ample sleeve-cuffs. Little birds perch and chitter and wipe their beaks unconcernedly, now on the tip of his nose and now on the point of his mitre, while the world below goes on its way pretty much as it did when the good saint was alive, and, in despair of the human brotherhood, took to preaching to the birds and the fishes. Whoever passed beneath this old arched gateway, thus saint-guarded, in the year of our Lord's grace--, might have seen under its shadow, sitting opposite to a stand of golden oranges, the little Agnes. A very pretty picture was she, reader.--with such a face as you sometimes see painted in those wayside shrines of sunny Italy, where the lamp burns pale at evening, and gillyflower and cyclamen are renewed with every morning. She might have been fifteen or thereabouts, but was so small of stature that she seemed yet a child. Her black hair was parted in a white unbroken seam down to the high forehead, whose serious arch, like that of a cathedral-door, spoke of thought and pray
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